


The Contracts

by alittlefrenchtree



Series: Then Timothée Chalamet came along [2]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: (i think), Ambiguity, Some Fluff, domestic shit, less angst than usual!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:41:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26646931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alittlefrenchtree/pseuds/alittlefrenchtree
Summary: In the middle of filming The King and about to sign the Dune contracts, Timmy flies out to NYC.Alternative summary : I wrote the exact same story for the third time.*Can be read as a prequel to Then Timothée Chalamet Came Along or on its own.*
Relationships: Timothée Chalamet/Armie Hammer
Series: Then Timothée Chalamet came along [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1938730
Comments: 29
Kudos: 58





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to the third version of the same story. If you’ve already read The Siren Song and Then Timothée Chalamet Came Along (by yours truly), you’ll quickly realize that I’m circling around the very same topics again. Let’s say The Siren Song was Charmander, TTCCA was Charmeleon and now you’re about to meet Charizard. (if you didn’t get that ref, please stop reading and go buy a gameboy and a Pokemon red game. You need that in your life way more than you need my story).
> 
> The Contracts can be considered as a prequel to TTCCA. You don’t have to read TTCCA to understand but if you want to read both, I recommend to read TTCCA first and The Contracts second.
> 
> Many (many) subjects touched by this story might have some (lol) resonance with real life events. All of them has been written way before reality catches on me. Obviously I don’t personally know these people or what’s really going on in their lives so, I don’t know how far or how close I am to reality here. 
> 
> It has to be known that I’m not a lawyer, have never worked for any movie studio, never read a movie contract or haven’t any legal background. I just rolled with elements that were serving my story and the feelings and ideas I wanted to convey here. So again, no idea how far or close I am to real life here. Maybe the Warner is going to hire a hit (wo)man on my ass in the next few days, who knows.
> 
> The Contracts has been thought as an one chapter thing. But it was too long so I decided to cut it in two parts. You'll have the second half tomorrow :)
> 
> I think it’s all you need to know for now? I hope you’ll enjoy the story 🙏
> 
> Unlike these notes, this story has been beta’d by a very talented person who actually knows what she’s doing. Merci Louuu ❤️

**June 2018, New York.**

Armie walks out of the bathroom wanting nothing more than to run straight back under the shower head. He’s wearing simple lose shorts and a t-shirt but the New York heat is already clinging to his skin. He’ll be sweating in no time. For now, he enjoys the last drops of water falling from his hair, cooling his skin and wetting his clothes. The remains of his cup of coffee, left on the kitchen counter, have turned cold. He still hasn’t made up his mind between fixing himself a breakfast or going out to try something new. It's early and he has the day off. Exploration and adventures around the city seem like the right thing to do to prevent him from doing something stupid with his free time – scrolling through the entirety of Twitter for example.

Armie's eyes roam around to locate his phone when he hears knocks at the front door. He isn’t expecting anyone and there is no message popping on the screen indicating a potential unexpected visitor. When he peaks at the bull’s-eye, his brain doesn’t immediately register the information his senses are trying to channel. His body catches up before his mind and he opens the door on a nervous and fidgety young man, a hooded head checking both sides of the empty hallway. He has a backpack on and his hands are hidden deep inside the pockets of huge dark sweatpants barely hanging on his narrow hips.

_Timmy_.

"What the fuck are you doin— _Oof_."

Armie doesn't have the time to catch Timmy’s eyes before his arms are filled with the full package that is the boy — thin (but noticeably more muscular than they used to be) limbs, sweet softness and a happy sigh escaping from a tired throat. 

Hugging Timmy is always a whole body experience. He doesn’t embrace with his arms only, doesn’t stop at enveloping your physical being. He looks for something more precious _inside_ , something buried deep. It doesn’t matter how many years you may have spent hiding, he always goes straight for it. He cups the newly found treasure between his long and delicate fingers and holds it against his chest, warming the most vulnerable piece of yourself with his very core. When he places it back in your ribcage, his warmth radiates through your entire being.

The hood falls off Timmy’s head, revealing the long curls Armie knows they're already planning to cut. A wave of scent invades Armie’s nostrils. He brushes off the mix of clean laundry, the artificial perfume and the unmistakable trace of a long flights and slides his nose behind Timmy’s left ear, right under the hair to find his true essence: a sweet spindrift of freshness and softwood. To Armie’s knowledge, there are only two places in the entire world where you can inhale the scent. On this patch of Timmy’s skin — a spot so little Armie could press on it with only one finger. He knows because he already tried, curious to see if the scent would imprint on his own skin. (It had, but only partially, something always missing with the absence of Timmy) — and while climbing the tree he calls his own on the island he grew up. He never understood how it'd happened, how his favorite sent in the world had found itself on the skin of a New York kid, but it had. And in the process, swept him off his feet since he first smelled it the day he touched foot in Crema. Armie never said it to anyone, not even Timmy. He kept to himself one of the last secrets left between them: the purpose behind his desire to take him to his childhood home, to sit him under his tree, scent to scent, home to home – and see what would happen.

"Armie?" Timmy’s voice comes out all muffled with his face pressed against the skin of Armie’s neck, "You’re kind of crushing me here?"

"Oh," Armie takes half of a step back, not even untying his arms off Timmy. "Sorry."

"Not that I mind but I need a little bit of oxygen down my lugs, you know?", Timmy exhales a laugh, not quite certain if he wants to give up on Armie’s body against his just yet.

"Yeah, right. Of course," Armie decides for him, letting his arms fall down his sides. "I’m sorry," he apologizes again, nails scratching at his light stubble.

Taking his first good look at Timmy’s face, Armie grabs his chin between his thumb and his forefinger and angles it to study him as the light and shadows lands on his features.

Timmy fidgets under the intensity of his stare, tries to lower his chin and hide his face. His body only falls into stasis when Armie’s fingers settle on the side of his neck. 

"You need to eat," Armie concludes. "And sleep too but we’ll take care of that later." He grabs Timmy’s bag and takes it off his shoulders, shutting the door behind him. "Come in."

Armie leads them inside, Timmy close behind him. The living space is a single vast room, half of the walls made of large windows opening over the East River far, far below. Clothes and toys are scattered around the apartment, left by Elizabeth and the kids before they headed back to Los Angeles.

"How are things between you guys?" Timmy asks.

"They’ve been good." The answer is quick, Armie’s voice flat and completely in control. He waits until he's made his way behind the kitchen island to add, low in his throat "…so far."

"Good", Timmy nods, standing a few steps away, still more in the living room than in the kitchenarea just yet. "I’m happy for you," he offers a nod again, proud to hear sincerity in his words. Finding their place in each other's lives — in each other's hearts — took them forever. Months, years even, spent tiptoeing around labels, dancing with their confused feelings and playing with boundaries until they grew tired of trying to _define_ what they were to each other and both agreed that, maybe, it didn’t matter so much. Being Armie and Timmy was more than enough. Most of the time, it was more than everything else would ever be.

Armie clears his throat before changing the subject. "Anything you'd like to eat?" 

Timmy takes a few steps forward. "Can I help?" He’s ready to walk over the kitchen counter despite being well aware he can’t cook a single thing to save is life.

Armie rolls his eyes at Timmy’s excessive politeness. "Yes," he smirks. "You can sit on a stool, keep your fingers away from any sharp object and _then_ , you can answer the question, please."

Timmy mimics his previous expression and Armie is relieved to see some of his natural sassiness coming back into play. "Do you have waffles?" Timmy asks, finally sitting as ordered.

"Do I have…" Armie stops, frowning. "Oh, you mean one those mixes full of maltodextrin and a thousand other unrequited nonsenses?"

"Yeah? Like the shit you use to make waffles?", Timmy grins, eyes sparkling, pleased to be teasing Armie and to have him play along. They’re so quick to fall back into their basic dynamic, basking in the easiness of evolving around each other. 

"And it's me you dare calling ‘very American’? _Jesus_." Armie shakes his head, defeated. "Shut your French mouth about damn mixes and think about what your poor Dad would say if he heard your balderdash."

Mixing all of the _natural_ ingredients together in a large bowl, Armie waits for Timmy to be distracted by something on his phone — and soon enough he’s indeed google-ing maltodextrin, making a show of reading to Armie " _Maltodextrin is used as a thickener, filler or preservative in many processed foods. It's an artificially produced white powder. Although maltodextrin comes from natural foods, it's highly processed."_ Armie shakes his head at the boy's antics. His back to him, he pretends to turn the waffle iron on. Eyes fixated on the handle and mind focused on the black metal not to get distracted, Armie takes a deep breath and musters the courage to put into words a truth he never did before, "I think it’s our last chance though, and I’m not sure it will work."

The light sound of Timmy’s fingertips tapping against the screen of his phone stops all of a sudden. Hands slightly shaking, Armie immediately regrets his confession, can’t help but thinking he just betrayed the woman he married eight years ago and the entire family standing with her. He starts beating the egg whites to hide from Timmy’s concerned gaze burning the back of his neck.

"Armie?" Timmy’s soothing voice calling his name stills everything inside him. "Can you look at me, please?"

Armie slowly puts the whisk down. He wets his lips to fight the nervousness, not quite meeting Timmy’s eyes when he cautiously turns to face him.

"Come on, man. It’s _me_."

The last word lands on Armie like an inviting caress, soft to his ears like the rustling of a fluffy duvet on a Sunday morning when the light is peaking through the curtains and you know you can stay in bed a little while longer. The sound of safety.

"I never— It’s the first time I say it. To anyone. It still feels very fresh. And I’m not gonna lie, it scares the shit out of me."

Armie walks back to the counter, gravitating closer to Timmy without giving much thought to the action. As he leans on the surface, Timmy takes Armie’s right hand between his and plants a kiss on every knuckle. Armie's gaze follows his lips for a beat, his breathing both steadier and deeper when he speaks again.

"I owe that to her — a fair chance. She’s been patient and forgiving with me, more than I deserve." 

Armie feels his hand being squeezed before the end of his sentence. When Timmy looks at him, he’s frowning and his eyes are a shade darker than usual. "Who you are isn’t something that needs forgiving, Armie. You deserve to be celebrated."

A silent thank you grows on Armie's lips, stretching them with gratefulness. Timmy has always been like this with him, injecting little doses of love through his system on a regular basis. Not to stroke his ego but to, piece by piece, shake the foundations on which he has built his whole self-esteem. 

Armie’s next conflicted thought quickens the fall of the corner of his mouth. "It’s not about _that_. Whether we want to admit it or not, there was plenty to forgive. She knew before I did — before either of us did — which means…" Armie takes back both of his hands to hide his face. "Which means I made her watch and listen for _months —_ probably years even, I don’t know _—_ without knowing I was hurting her. In her shoes, I don’t— I _do_ know how I would have reacted and it would have been fucking ugly. If she’s good enough to want to try again…"

"Are you sure she wants to try?" 

When Timmy snaps, he’s not loud or angry. He’s surgical and sharp, pressing right where you wish he wouldn’t. "Maybe she just needs to?"

"Tim…" Armie sighs.

"I shouldn’t have said that, I’m so sorry!" Timmy’s hands raise on their own volition, awkwardly reaching in front of him but aborting their ascent halfway through, like he’s trying to press his apology against Armie’s body all at once. "I clearly overstepped. I’m an asshole."

"Thanks." Armie’s smile is tight. "And you’re not an asshole." 

He turns back to finish the recipe. For a moment, the only sound comes from Armie evolving around the kitchen. He’s putting a fine layer of cooking oil on the waffle iron when Timmy’s small and still apologetic voice breaks the silence, seeking reassurance. 

"Are you mad?"

Armie sighs but looks back at Timmy with gentle eyes. "I’m not mad at you. I promise. You’ve heard me bitch about her enough to… I _understand_. And you apologized, so we’re good. Besides, you’re not the first one to voice— Let’s say _suspicions_ , about her intentions. I know my wife. I’m not blind when it comes to her. I know that whatever pushed her to make the decision, business was part of it." He loudly breathes out again and adds, "But I have to believe there is still more to it than our marriage contracts. I have to. How could I not when there is a whole freaking decade of history between us, and Harper and Ford and my whole adult life? She’s family and family isn’t always easy but you have to fight for it, right?"

He is sending a silent plea to Timmy, begging him to support his words. His shoulders visibly sink when he notices the answer writing itself on Timmy’s face. "…You never had to fight for yours, did you?"

Timmy shakes his head with a sorry smile, curls flying all around. "But I’m not a parent or a husband so..." He shrugs. "What the fuck do I know about anything?"

"Ha!" Armie laughs throw and a dish towel in his approximate direction. "Timothée Chalamet still pretending to be dumb. I would like to meet the fucking moron who’ll actually believe that."

With a small giggle, Timmy dodges the projectile but almost falls off his seat in the process. Half-blushing, half-laughing at himself, he makes a poor attempt at giving Armie a death stare. They end up bursting into laughter together. "Shut up," Timmy mumbles with a pout.

As Armie finally puts the waffle batter to cook, Timmy’s phone lights up with an incoming call. The agent’s name on the screen is silently loud in the quiet room.

"I— I should pick up. Calm him down for a second."

"Yes, of course. Be my guest. You want me to..?" Armie gestures to another room, offering a moment of privacy.

"What?" Timmy asks, obviously finding the idea absurd. "No, of course not. I only need a minute.Besides…" His mouths falls shut and his mind jumps to another idea. "It won’t be long," he promises.

"Brian," Timmy politely answers, device in hand. For a few seconds, Armie overhears the agent yelling over the phone. Timmy rolls his eyes while grinning at him, like a teenage boy proud to defy his parents’ authority for the first time. "Yeah sorry about that, I was on a plane. For seven hours, yes. Yes. Of course I needed to see him, it affects him as well!" Timmy listens quietly. "Yes. Tomorrow, early afternoon." He pauses again, then sighs. "Well, I’ll look tired I guess. I play a damn king, I bet his life wasn’t exactly relaxing either, right?" His eyes shut tight, a vain attempt to protect him from something he obviously doesn’t want to hear. "I don’t know, Brian. I need a minute to fucking think, ok?" Timmy’s voice raises slightly over Brian’s shot at speaking. "And yes, I'd rather do that with Armie around." Feeling Armie’s worried eyes on him, he forces himself to breathe in and out. "Ok. I know, I know. I’m sorry. I promise. Yes, bye."

Armie listens as Timmy pockets his phone. He gives him the seconds he needs to regroup while he finishes putting their breakfast together, adding toppings on one of the plates. The sad look on Timmy’s face when he turns back has his heart sinking. If Timmy often asks him for advice, it’s never the reason why he runs to him. When he flies here, straight into his sheltering arms, it’s always because he needs a break from life. A day or two to catch his breath, far from his everyday frenzy. He gives himself entirely to Armie, trusts him with his life to welcome him in his own, trusts him to take care of him and give him what he needs even when he doesn’t quite know himself.

"We don’t have to talk about it right now," Armie tries with a soothing voice. "Not if you don’t want to."

Chin tucked low, Timmy looks at him, hesitant. "No?" He sounds hopeful.

"Eat first," Armie says as he places a steaming plate of waffles with slices of fresh fruits and a drizzle of chocolat sauce in front of Timmy. "And make yourself useful, help me run some lines. I might need your theater genius expertise for some of them. We’ll deal with this shit later, ok?"

Timmy nods in rapid succession, relieved. "Ok, yeah. I can do that."

***

"Can we go over one time? Starting at—"

"No."

"What— Why, did I miss something again?"

Sitting on the sofa with Timmy lying half across his lap, Armie makes an attempt to grab the scriptbut the boy keeps it close to his chest and folds his arms to prevent him from checking it for the umpteenth time.

"No, it was perfect," Timmy says. "You don’t need any more, you like… fucking nailed it." 

Armie rolls his eyes but Timmy is quick to catch his automatic self-deprecating response. 

"It was beautiful, I swear! All you have to do now is leave it alone. Let every part of the text, every word become a part of you so you don’t have to think the next time you play them for real. It’ll be natural." Awkwardly bending his arm, Timmy presses on one of Armie’s thighs with his forefinger. "It’ll be _you_."

"You sure? Maybe if I try to…"

"Armie," Timmy talks over him with a scolding voice, digging his finger a bit deeper into the flesh — enough to hurt a little. Quickly though, his hand goes flat and he pets the skin on Armie’s kneeunder the hem of his shorts. "Trust me on this." 

To back his words, Timmy throws the script away. It lands on the coffee table, slides on all his width and falls on the carpet. " _Merde_ ," he quietly laughs but doesn’t make a move.

Armie rubs his palms against his face, "I could use a break in rehearsing, I guess."

They spend a few minutes in silence, Armie running gentle fingers through Timmy’s mop of curls. Looking at his hooded eyelids, listening to his breathing getting deeper and slower, Armie wonders how close he is to falling asleep. Before he has the chance to extend his arm and catch a blanket to wrap it around Timmy, knowing how cold he can get even in the middle of the summer, the young man sighs out loud, definitely more awake than Armie had suspected. He watches as Timmy sits up again and puts some distance between their bodies.

"So," Timmy starts without going further. He busies himself with hugging his thighs to his chest and crosses his ankles to rest his chin on top of his knees, "I got the contracts."

"I knew you could do it!" Armie pumps his fist in the air in a celebrating move, a large grin on his lips. "Congrat—"

"… I haven’t signed them."

Armie waits for the _yet_ at this end of the sentence for a second. Then another. And another. It never comes. The puzzle finally comes into view in Armie's mind, complete, the unspoken word drawing the last missing piece. Everything clicks: Timmy flying across half the world to show up unannounced on his doorstep, his face and the hug, Brian’s phone call. Timmy has been offered the leading role on the film that will always remain one of the biggest movies of his whole career — no matter how long it lasts — and he’s about to say no.

"Wha— Timmy, why? It’s fucking Dune, with fucking Villeneuve!" Armie says, incredulous.

"Don’t you think I fucking know that?" Timmy retorts, immediately tense. The apology rushes through, "Sorry." But the word is only a testimony to his well-mannered education. His eyes are still dark, heart hidden behind the barricade of his body. His exhalation isn’t deep enough to release the frustration trapped inside his chest. "Everybody has been telling me the same thing for weeks now and I’m tired of feeling like the biggest ungrateful bastard of all time. I know they have a list of two dozen of guys waiting for any hint of a mistake to take my place." Wounded pride lowers his head and his voice, words refusing to be said until they tumble out of his mouth all at once, desperately trying to erase the others. "I know I need them way more than they need me."

Armie takes his time to answer. He gently pulls on Timmy’s legs, forcing his feet back on his lap. He takes off the socks, brushes a kiss on each ankle and starts massaging his presence back into Timmy’s skin. Keeping his voice low and gentle, he asks, "What happened?"

"They— I— I don’t even know where to start. There are so many pages about fucking everything and _everyone_ around me."

Armie’s hands stop moving for a second but quickly resume their work. He doesn’t feel Timmy leaning into his touch and relaxing under his palms like he usually does whenever Armie lay his hands on his skin. He forces himself to ask, "How bad it is?" and then, because he can’t help himself, "Do they want you to be a politically correct empty dumbass with no opinion on anything whatsoever?"

Timmy’s head perks at the question, Armie’s words distracting him from his spiraling thoughts for a moment. A spark of concern shines through the abyss in his eyes. "Did they ever ask you to be like that?"

"Yeah, but that was a lifetime ago. I don’t even remember what it was for" Armie’s face goes blank as he fails to reconnect the memories. He ends up shrugging, "Maybe the Batman shit."

"Did you agree to do it?" Expectations paint a strange glow on Timmy’s face. He’s obviously looking for something in the upcoming answer but Armie isn’t quite sure what for. Cautious, he wordlessly nods, focused on the rhythm he feels vibrating underneath his fingertips, right under the surface of Timmy’s skin. It has been one of his secrets for all these years. Every time Armie touches him, Timmy’s heart pulse is a siren song through the sea mist — a transcription to Timmy’s inner melody as much as a lighthouse in Armie’s life. Under his thumb, the beat slows down — relief. Or disappointment, maybe both.

"That doesn’t really sound like you."

"Really?" Armie’s heart warms with all the esteem and faith the kid has for him. "Back then I thought… I thought my voice didn’t really matter that much, I guess. It never had, so the world wouldn’t have missed much if I'd shut up for a few months and played the expected part, right? I was used to it already." 

A sad smile draws an apology on his lips. He has never lived up to the role model Timmy has always seen in him. In response, he feels Timmy’s right foot curl and push against his palms, like a cat on a cuddle mission. Timmy’s presence in New York in this very moment is the loudest testimony to how much Armie’s voice matters to him and he’s doing everything he can for Armie to know it.

"They think it’s different now," Timmy explains after a short moment of silence. As he speaks, his toes travel on Armie’s skin, teasing the back of his hand and walking the reliefs and hollows on his arm. "Some situations require us to speak up, especially when your target audience is young. Obviously we all have to but now it’s also an _image_ thing and I hate it. I hate that there is going to be someone who will post, moderate and validate all the content coming from my name. I hate that in times of crisis, someone is going to prioritize my fucking needs over what really matters. I hate it so fucking much. It’s going to be the same charade in every single aspect of my life. There won’t be anything spontaneous left from me anymore. And it doesn’t feel right, Armie. It doesn’t feel right at all."

"We’ve talked about this, haven’t we? We knew it was meant to happen, right?"

Armie’s gentle tone has the opposite effect on Timmy. His whole body tenses from irritation at Armie being measured and reasonable, as everyone has already tried to be with him for weeks, when all he sees is red. He needs someone to scream and to be angry the same way he is.

"Well, thanks a lot," Timmy replies dryly as he folds every part of his body back and away from Armie’s touch. "It does make everything a lot easier since we've talked about it before." He stands up, goes to fetch his backpack that Armie left near the kitchen counter. "No need to overreact to the fact that the reception of the biggest movie of my life," he bends down, his sweatpants just hanging on his hips, and extracts several folders from the bag, "the success of my whole career, really," he returns to the couch, plants himself in front of it, "depends on everything but my ability to act." He throws a huge pile of papers on Armie’s knees and folds his arms on his chest. "Please Armie, tell me how I'm supposed not to overreact to all of this shit. "

Stunned at the sight of Timmy losing his composure, Armie takes a few breaths to consider the stack on his lap. Contracts are usually long but these are really heavy and feel… Numerous. Even if the project is gigantic, there is no way all of these are for one movie only. Armie is pretty sure half the files he’s looking at shouldn’t have left the office where they got printed in in the first place, and certainly not landing under his eyes —him who has nothing to do with anything.

He takes his eyes off them, and looks at Timmy instead. "I was rude, wasn’t I?"

"You were." His tone isn’t back to his usual warmth but his body goes slack immediately. "And I’ve been jumping at everyone’s throat since that fucking meeting, so it doesn’t help." He smiles. "Sorry for snapping at you like that."

Armie snorts, "You're apologizing because _I_ was a dick?"

"I’m so— I guess, yeah."

Without further effort, the tension between them eases and they’re back to grinning at each other. They’re not used to raising their voice when they’re together, so uncomfortable with only the idea of fighting with each other. They choose the opposite side every time, building a relationship constantly fed on compassion and empathy, and the healthiest form of love they could ever ask for.

"There are a bunch of stuff," Timmy says sitting back on the couch, cross-legged. 

They’re not touching but close enough for Armie’s lungs to be filled with the scent of Timmy. The heat spreads through his body from head to toe. Like an addict, he relishes on taking a second inspiration, quicker than his system actually requires.

"…Handing over my social media accounts to someone else," Timmy continues, words catching Armie’s attention again. "Which include following and unfollowing some previously defined people and reaching a certain amount of followers both on Twitter and Instagram. They will give me schedules of events and dinners I have to attend on a regular basis. They talk about my frie— about my _entourage_. People I’m seen with. A million of others things, some of them I’ve never even seen or heard of but will still be attached to my name all the same." The flow of his words slows down abruptly and he touches the corner of some pages still on Armie’s lap, slides his thumb over a staple. "It’s frightening, you know? Knowing your face is out there and you don’t know, you don’t know anything about it, basically." 

He sighs. 

"They also have the right to look into the roles I’ll be picking for the next few years." The strange edge in his tone tells Armie that on the list of things bothering Timmy, this is right at the top. Nothing is more important for him than his artistic integrity.

"Wait, really?"

"Yeah." Timmy’s hands fly to his hair, tugging at the strands in frustration. "Brian said he won’t let them fuck with us on that but… They could. If they want to."

"Fucking assholes," Armie spits out.

"There have been some heated exchanges over advertising and merchandising deals as well. But, towards the end, they all agreed on one thing." His eyelids flutter, his eyes climbing up Armie’s body — waist, arms, torso, collarbones, neck, jawline — until he meets his expecting blue gaze. "Apparently, the shape of my career mostly depends on who people think I’m fucking."

A ray of light sets the particles of dust drifting between them on fire. It lands on Timmy’s wet bottom lip, the luminescent trail left by his tongue still shining. They’re close enough to hear the other breathe and for a while it’s the only sound they listen to. Someone clears their throat without either of them knowing who does.

"…but we kind of already knew that, right?" Timmy exhales a short and uncomfortable laugh. "That’s just even more true now. And since my public dating life is… non-existent, as they say, it’s a problem." He pauses, biting his lip. He avoids looking at Armie when he says, "While we were in Cannes, I— We— They kind of proved a point, that _I_ was publicly practically non-existent as well."

As much as Timmy is trying to hide it, Armie knows him and the business too well not to suspect how a single word such as — _non-existent_ — can imprint forever lasting insecurities into someone’s skin. 

"They fucking dare say that?" Anger runs through his body, fists strained closed to control the shaking.

"Armie, whether we like it or not, they’re right," Timmy says calmly but the stillness in his voicetranslates his resignation. "For the kind of business they’re talking about, they’re right."

"Fuck that," Armie says grabbing Timmy’s chin to force the boy to look at him but quickly drops his hand when he meets absolutely no resistance. "Timmy, you need to listen to me very carefully here." He speaks fast, trying to get his words inside the boy’s brain as fast as possible. "Are you listening?"

"Yes, I’m listening."

"Being publicly existent, whatever the fuck it means, is worth nothing, ok? Your value, as an artist and more importantly as a human being, doesn’t depend on that. Do you understand?" Armie says, pressing his finger against Timmy to push the words inside his chest, to spread them in his blood, to invest his heart and stay there for a long time. Then he adds, "And you, you already fucking matter, ok? You don’t need these motherfuckers, or all their crap, to matter to a lot of people and to this industry." He tries to swallow the knot in his throat and repeats, voice hoarse, "You really don’t."

Armie notices the pain biting his palm skin the moment he stops talking. His short nails have started to break the surface. For the second time since he arrived, Timmy takes his hand in his own. Slowly, he opens it with soothing gestures.

"Thank you", Timmy’s heart says. Armie doesn’t even see his lips moving. He only hears the beating sound.

"You look exhausted," Armie says after a few minutes of silence. His thumb touches the edge of Timmy’s cheekbones, underlining the dark shadow under the eye. The rest of his hand cups half of his face in the process. He catches the movement Timmy aborts before starting to nuzzle at the contact. "Maybe we should take a break?"

Even with the ever present worry that comes from caring so much, Armie knows he’s stalling. He doesn’t want to hear what Timmy has to say next and he’s trying to distract him. To bury the words until they disappear almost completely, the freshly dug soil the only remaining sign of the grave. _Here lies a missed chance at something majestic._

"I would love to but I’m pretty sure it would be best if we didn’t?" Even if he’s the one leading the show, it’s clear he’s asking for Armie’s approval. "I want to actually enjoy what little time I have here with you and I won’t be able to do that if I don’t say everything at first." 

It takes everything in him for Armie not to stand up and run. Or to use any excuse to put as much distance as possible between his body and the contracts still burning on his thighs. To cover his ears with pretense and live the rest of his life in quietness, refusing the knowledge of a future he already despises for so many reasons.

Somehow in the process of not running away from each other, they managed to draw their bodies even closer.

"So I’m supposed to… Date, basically. They say they already made a list of suggestions but they’re willing to make some concessions if I come up with choices of my own. Like they expect me to fall in love with it-girls on command or something. They thought they were being generous so I made a joke."

Armie cocks an inquiring eyebrow.

"I mentioned a guy I occasionally talk with on an app. It’s not even a dat— It’s anonymous anyway, so we don’t know much about each other but I asked if I could fake date him. Just to see their faces."

All of Armie’s features freeze at the same time. He can’t even bring himself to summon a smile. All he does is watch the shadow of guilt crawl into Timmy’s eyes.

"Yeah, they didn’t laugh that much either," Timmy says, scratching the back of his head.

"Do you know who yet then?" It’s the last question he should be asking but it’s the only one echoing in Armie’s mind.

"One seems like… The natural choice at the moment." Light pink dusts his cheeks. Timmy averts his gaze, making the conscious – but vain, effort to escape Armie's. When his eyes travel back to Armie for a split second, he realizes the other man is already gone, mind wandering away from him. With twisted lips, Timmy ties the drawstrings of his hoodie into little knots.

A million words burn a million holes inside Armie, unfair feelings he’s this close to letting fall from his brain, rush out his lips and ravage the balance of their relationship. Spiteful and pure cruelty not only towards Timmy but the unnamed girl and the faceless boy as well. He hates himself for it and hates himself even more because he already knows Timmy would forgive him for the first part in no time, regardless of the amount of shit Armie would be throwing at him. But he would be disappointed by his nastiness for the others, would look at him with the realization that Armie isn’t the man he thought he was clearly written all over his face. Of all of the disappointment he has already caused in his life, Timmy’s disenchantment of him would be the last one of too many. And the fear itself fuels the blaze, becomes the spark setting all of the oxygen inside his lungs on fire.

Timmy blinks at him and the flames dissipate, burnt out by the flutter of his eyelashes. No one ever had such an immediate effect on Armie, he knows. Larger than life in everything, he usually needs what feels like forever to find peace again after the impact. No one but Timmy can stop everything around Armie from spinning, ringing, noising. Hard as he searches inside, he finds no sign of the heat of wrath left, the inferno having retreated after its requiem, the firestorm extinguished all at once by the green of Timmy’s eyes. _He’s lost._ He came all the way through the ocean seeking for guidance. He deserves a place where he can breathe, unwind and have the chance to ease his mindset back to a quiet and calm state. 

"There will be others. A couple. Or a few, I don’t know. Casual things. Maybe more if we manage to make the second movie." 

"And you’re ok with that?" Armie asks. He hopes he managed to suppress any ounce of judgmental undertone in his words because he doesn’t want Timmy to think that’s what he’s going for. Because it’s not.

"Is anybody really ok with lying?"

"Does the lie matter if you’re lying about something that is nobody’s business but yours?"

"What do you mean?"

"The only reason you have to do this is because our business is fucked up." Armie shakes his head and rectifies, "It’s not even our business, it’s the entire society. Think about people who have nothing to do with Hollywood. Everybody is still asking about everybody else’s relationship status and you’re always seen as a weirdo if you’re not interested. Most of them won’t listen to what you say and will still try to set you up on dates or whatever. The whole world is obsessed with sex and love." Armie contemplates his words, wondering if he went too far, digressed to issues more concerning to him than bothering Timmy. "Whatever it is for… regular people," he tries to conclude, "it will always be ten times worse for us. If people care that much about who you’re screwing or who you want to screw… I’d say they deserve to be lied to?"

"I’ll still look like a fucking moron," Timmy mutters.

"With this job, there will always be moments where you feel that way."

"What's yours?"

" _Are_ ", Armie corrects. "Every time I have to talk about me or my life in interviews. I talk and I hear myself talk and all I can think is, _nobody gives a fuck and you sound like a narcissistic dick_. Or when I find out the price of the outfit I wore for two hours on a red carpet for an ego-trip self-indulgent ceremony that I’m not even allowed to wear again for no reason at all," he shakes his head. "It’s just so fucking stupid."

The glint in Timmy’s eyes tells Armie what he's about to say before he even opens his mouth. "But it’s really pretty."

The laughs that tumble out their lips don't ring true, devoid of anything real. Armie can’t help but let the tiny smile linger on his lips as he witnesses their conversation making its way inside Timmy. Timmy isn’t slow — he’s rather a tad too quick. And yet he’d be the last to jump to conclusions. He likes to take his time to consider every single word, weigh the depth of the meaning they each own as much as the width of the consequences they might hold. Armie can tell the moment something clics for him, immediately followed by a tentative but confident nod. Their exchange has gifted Timmy a trail to follow, blessed him with the hope for a path to peacefulness.

This hopeful phantom is quick to vanish from Timmy’s face. Armie watches him swallow seconds of silence before he hears, "There are three pages about you."

That’s it then. They finally wrote Armie out of Timmy’s life. Something sinks inside him — not inside his heart, Timmy’s place is immutable there — but around the area of his stomach, inviting a bitter taste behind the border of his lips. He contemplates the shape of the last two years together and he only needs a second to understand no one will ever have the chance to experience what he lived by Timmy’s side. He's one of the few blessed souls. Two years were way more that he could have expected — or deserved. The only decent thing to say now is thank you, not _one more minute please_. Timmy will keep walking straight ahead, looking behind his shoulder maybe once or twice, and lose the sight of him at an unexpected corner. And that's fair. Right, even. "Damn, these Warner douches really are afraid of my old ass, huh?"

"You should take a look," Timmy rasps.

For a while, the room echoes with the ruffling sound of Armie browsing through the dozens of pages. His eyes quickly scan the words, catching the usual clauses for filming contracts, some of the points Timmy has already mentioned and a few more, including not answering questions that haven’t been approved first, avoiding anything live and banned words and subjects.He recognizes a couple of Timmy’s friends' names, associated with a few rewards in exchange of various services. Armie’s name is nowhere to be seen, only because he’s the only one with several pages of his own.

He tries to read every line but rapidly understands he won’t be able to stomach them all at once. A couple randomly stand out, making his insides turn.

_"Starting the signature of this present contract_ (the mention is stroke. Someone added a date in March 2019 by hand with a pen. It looks like the end of the next award season), _Timothée Chalamet isn’t allowed to pick Armand Hammer as a plus one for any official event or as a presenter to any award ceremony. In the same way, Timothée Chalamet isn’t allowed to be a plus one or a presenter for Armand Hammer."_

_"In every interview or public declaration, Timothée Chalamet must refer to Armand Hammer as ‘Armie Hammer’ and not by his given nickname alone."_

He jumps through a few more paragraphs, turns a page, and a second. Every information hitting him tightens the knot in his throat. Overall, for three years — probably more if they prolong the contracts for a second movie — they won’t be allowed to do much more than meet behind closed doors or run into each other by chance at a public event. Which Armie is sure people around Timmy would very much want to avoid at all cost. And maybe they already did. It goes on and on until a conclusion of some sort, stating that, if possible, Timmy should request from Armie to adopt the same kind of attitude toward him. 

"They’ve been toying with the idea of making you sign a contract as well," Timmy says, answering a question barely born in Armie’s mind. "I was ready to leave the room and tell all of them to fuck off so Brian talked them out of it."

"How did he manage such exploit?"

"He told them he knew you too well and already knew it was a bad idea. Past has already proven, and I’m quoting, that you cause less trouble when no one is trying to control you and you have nothing to rebel against."

"Clever bastard," Armie says, a touch of esteem for Timmy’s agent coloring his words. He pauses and adds, "I would have done it, you know. For you."

"I know, and I would have hated myself for it. I don’t know how that could have ended well." For a second, Timmy looks at Armie with something incredibly soft in his eyes. It reminds him of Luca. "I'd rather you be free."

The word almost sounds like a joke now, ironic and bitter as reality blatantly mocks Armie with every page resting on his lap, word after word stripping Timmy of every drop of the freedom he once had. He can’t stop staring at the black letters on the page, reading none of them except for their two names lying so close together, only to push them apart in the end. These people took something irrevocably theirs and claimed rights where they had none to begin with. What should belong to them and them only has been sentenced to be locked away, prisoner of a golden cage. It would now be covered with the cloak of shame simply because they were unable to understand the beauty of their bond. His sight goes foggy, his ears clog over the stretching silence and his perception blurs, making him numb to the stiffness at his side. 

He doesn’t hear anything until a distressed voice calling his name brings him back, "Armie?" 

Green puddles blend into empty blue eyes. "I don’t know what to do."

Ignoring the sharp claw of fear tearing him apart, Armie does his best to reflect reassurance back at Timmy. He doesn’t smile — there’s not much to smile about and Timmy doesn’t need the lie — but he has to be the one holding them together this time.

"You don’t have to decide right now," Armie says, tucking a curl behind Timmy’s ear.

Looking back at him, Timmy twists his mouth in a doubtful frown. "But I kind of have to", his voice nothing more than a frail protest. "I really wasn’t supposed to grab everything and run."

Armie shakes his head as he stands up. "Considering what these asses are asking for, you earned the right to take your time to figure their shit out and _they_ deserve some hanging and not knowing what’s going to happen." He takes Timmy’s hand in his own, makes him stand on his feet as well. "Right now, you need sleep so we’re going to nap. Then we’ll see."

By the relieved smile he watches spreading on Timmy’s face, Armie knows he made the right call. He guides Timmy out of the living space with a hand on the small of his back. The contact brings them both back to promo time and red carpets. The intent is the same — Armie physically settling his presence on Timmy’s body to help him through the event, the day, the flight, whatever was challenging him at the time. But the result is different. There is no one watching, no pictures being taken, no nothing. No one would ever know about the way Timmy trips over nothing, about Armie keeping him afoot by a firmer grip around his waist, about Timmy nuzzling a silent _thank you_ into the side of his shoulder.

Armie doesn’t say where they’re going and Timmy doesn’t seem to mind, his body following Armie’s directions. Not for a second, he worries or wonders about their destination. When Armie opens a door at the far end of a hallway, Timmy knows he was right.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The room Timmy walks in is less imposing than the rest of the apartment. More lived in as well, or at least occupied by a warmer soul. The ceiling seems lower and the different pieces of furniture are arranged in a tighter space.

The room Timmy walks in is less imposing than the rest of the apartment. More lived in as well, or at least occupied by a warmer soul. The ceiling seems lower and the different pieces of furniture are arranged in a tighter space. A queen size bed has been pushed in a corner with a single nightstand on the side. Several shelves are hung on the wall, the majority remaining empty though Armie has started to pile up books and DVDs on some at random. Timmy smiles at the memories of the two of them arguing the day he had tried to make Armie order an e-book. _I prefer my art non-digital if you don’t mind_ , Armie had said, putting his shoes on to go to the nearest bookshop.

A desk faces one of the windows, all of the stationary neatly organized on top of it, from the pile of papers to the perfectly aligned pens and the clean mugs. With a snort of amusement, Timmy thinks of his own cups when he’s studying for a role, stained with coffee marks as he usually doesn’t wash them as often as he should. He immediately adores the room because every single aspect murmurs Armie vibes to his senses. From the messy wrinkles of the sheets that look more inviting to Timmy than any perfectly made hotel bed to the rigor of his stationery work. It feels like taking a step inside the very heart of the man. There is nowhere Timmy would rather be to take one of the most important decisions of his life.

"You need anything? Comfy clothes?" 

Their eyes fall at the same time on Timmy’s body, only wrapped in cotton clothes. Timmy opens his mouth to answer, starts to shake his head, stops all together. After a second, Armie takes pity on him and asks with a wry smile, "You want a t-shirt?"

Timmy beams with relief. "Please?"

"Sit here," Armie commands with a gentle push on his shoulder. "I’ll be right back." 

Timmy's eyes close at the sensation of Armie’s lips dropping a kiss on the top of his head before leaving the room. In the familiar darkness exploding behind his eyelids and body warm from themidday sun flooding the room, sudden exhaustion weighs on his shoulders for the first time since the plane landed on the tarmac.

The air shifting around Timmy as Armie comes back draws a smile on his face. He hears him kneel in front of him and feels his hands taking his hoodie off and peeling the last piece of clothing off his chest. Timmy’s arms are impossibly heavy but when he feels the soft worn-out fabric of Armie’s t-shirt against his skin, he breathes in the first sense of belonging in a very long time.

Armie’s low voice pulls him out of the fog, "Do you want to take your pants off?"

"I think I can handle it?" The question mark hangs between them, half a joke, half something else crushed on Timmy’s bottom lip by his teeth. The pants fall at his feet. Armie picks them up and fold them away with the rest of the clothes. Timmy’s naked thighs crawl on the bed, right to the opposite corner, facing the wall with his knees huddled close to his chest.

When they sleep in the same bed, as surprising as it sounds, Timmy is usually the big spoon. Or at least, he tries to be, monkeying his way onto Armie’s body, using the immensity of his back as a tree to climb because he can’t help himself. And because Armie loves to be held.

This time however, a shirtless Armie wraps himself around Timmy, cocooning them both. Between the solid wall and the safety of Armie’s body, the void around him is finally gone. The deafening silence chilling him whole has retreated and morphed into a soft and comforting blanket.

"You don’t really need to nap, do you?" Timmy asks quietly.

"I always need to nap."

"Sorry for ruining your day off."

"You could never ruin anything, Timmy."

Timmy mumbles a few unintelligible words and falls into sleep in the middle of one, Armie’s breath tickling the skin of his nape.

A couple hours later, Timmy slowly swims back to consciousness. He stops just below the surface, unsure of everything apart from the serenity enveloping him. Tiredness still lingers through his body, barely eased by the nap, but his mind is as quiet as the room around him. The room echoes with hushed breaths and the soft sound of the pages of an old book being gently turned, like newborn waves coming to rest ashore.

He sits up with his eyes still shut, curls falling as they please around his head. The sheet pools around his waist and Timmy waits for something, anything, to fully take him out of his sleepy state.

A chuckle disrupts into the silence, "Are you sleepwalking now?"

"I have sensitive pupils." Timmy frowns with his eyes still closed, "Why are you all the way there and not in the bed with me?"

Armie, still very much on the bed, glances at the less than two feet of distance between them and shakes his head with fondness. "You kicked me away."

Timmy’s eyes spring open. "What. Why?"

"I’m pretty sure you tried to sword fight me." Armie smirks, "You probably thought I was Pattinson trying to kill you in your sleep."

Timmy rolls his eyes and walks on all four towards Armie who spreads his arms wide open to receive him, the book still in one hand. "Putain de Robert," Timmy says with emphasis on all the Frenchness of the consonants.

"Do I look like— Wait is that how you say his name in French?" 

"Yep. Not so hot, huh?" Timmy says, as he tries to rearrange Armie’s limbs around his body. " _Roberts_ are mostly old in France I think. Like 80 or something."

"Do I sense some trouble in paradise with your French grandpa already?"

"No, not at all! He’s just so good and effortlessly cool? And I’m so…" Timmy keeps fidgeting, failing to find a comfortable way to lie still. "Not?"

"You’re not— He says he’s not good and not cool."

"Shut up," Timmy says as he sits up again, "and… Be pliant, please?"

Timmy moves them around, prompts pillows against the headboard until he’s sitting with Armie half lying on top him, his back to Timmy’s chest and belly. The man’s heavy but Timmy welcomes the weight. Having his body close is scorching him, overheating his skin in the New York afternoon. Timmy doesn't care. Armie’s overwhelming presence is the balance to his own chaotic one. His way to harmony.

"You always get to play with my hair and I can never do the same with yours," Timmy pouts with his fingers scratching at Armie’s scalp, lightly tugging at the golden strands. "It’s unfair."

As Armie keeps on reading for a more few minutes, Timmy makes his personal mission to draw low purrings out of his throat. A triumphant smile enlightens his face when Armie gives up and lets the book fall flat on his chest. His eyelids flutter for a few seconds before the lashes drop against the high of his cheekbones and he completely abandons himself under Timmy’s fingertips.

Keeping one hand locked into Armie’s roots, Timmy allows the other to wander on Armie’s neck, makes it land on his chest where he traces endless invisible landscapes on the canvas of his skin.

"I’m sorry I wasn’t here for our anniversary," Timmy says, barely disturbing the quiet.

Armie softly laughs at the the apology. Had they been in a room full of people, the joke would have been understood by them alone. Somewhere only they were, the words had the value of universal truth. "You know I don’t care about that."

"You’re right. It’s stupid."

"’s not what I said," Armie protests, blindly pinching Timmy’s side to make him squirm. He deigns to stop when he hears high-pitched sparkles of joy bursting out of his mouth. "You know I care about you and us and I miss you when you’re not around — anniversary or not. I’m just happy to see you whenever." Armie catches the hand dancing on his torso and places a kiss on its back.

"Me too," Timmy says. He chuckles.

"What?" Armie asks, perking an eye at him.

"You’re the first person I said ‘I do’ to in a church." Timmy can’t help the large grin on his lips.

Armie squints, "How many people did you marry _outside_ of a church?"

"Two," Timmy says. "During the same summer, actually."

Armie barks with this big, loud and unrestrained laugh Timmy loves so much. "How very Elio of you," he says, shaking his head with amusement.

"Fuck you, you’re not allowed to make fun of 5 years old me!" Timmy’s attempt to tickle Armie’s sides is short-lived. With both of his wrists handcuffed by only one of Armie’s hand, he silently presents his surrender with a shrug, smiling. "One was very good at playing football so obviously I had to. The other— I don’t even know. The only memory I have of this union is a ring made of grass and daisies."

"People were already lining up to marry you, I see," Armie inflects dryness in his tone, mimicking jealousy with a genuine smile.

"Don’t tell anyone but — I think you’re my favorite."

"I certainly hope so."

Out of Armie’s sight, Timmy debates asking the question burning his lips. If Armie was looking at him, he would immediately ask him to cut the crap and just shoot the thought obviously bothering him. Only Timmy isn’t quite sure about what the question is really implying. "Could we go back one day? To Santa Maria della Croce, I mean. Just as, us?"

Armie doesn’t miss a beat, "I promise, we will." 

_He didn’t understand._

A few seconds later, Armie’s phone buzzes on the nightstand.

"It’s Elizabeth," Armie says after a quick look. He types back a short answer before putting it away. "She wants to do the nighttime call with the kids early since it’s my day off."

"Will you tell her I’m here?"

"I should," Armie sighs. "And I want to. I don’t see how any of it can work if I’m not or can’t be honest with her. But I also don’t know how that conversation can go well if I am."

His words twist a muscle in Timmy’s heart. His mere presence is making Armie’s life more difficult than it already is. Coming here was a selfish move. He tightly squeezes Armie’s body against his as an apology, wishing he could help. "You could explain it’s about the contracts? That I needed to talk to you about it. You know, for legal reasons."

Armie answers with a dry laugh, "You want me to tell her that a multibillionaire company is so scared of the two of us together they had to legally write me out of your life, but that she shouldn’t be worried about the fact that we’re napping in the same bed?" 

"If you put it— Wait, no one is writing you out of my life for _real_." 

"Of course, it’s what you focus on."

"No, no, no," Timmy shakes his head as he forces Armie to sit up and turn around. On his knees, towering Armie of a few inches, Timmy cups his face, captures Armie’s eyes with his own. "It’s important and you need to listen to me. If I’m doing all this shit, it'll only be for public reasons, ok? Absolutely no-fucking-one can write you out of my life, Armie. Ever. You understand? I’m going to keep annoying you in every private way I can think of and miss you every day I can’t, you hear me?"

Armie quickly blinks away the uninvited wetness, masks it with a smirk. "Yeah, yeah, I hear you." 

But Timmy doesn’t let him get away with it, "I need you to believe me on this, Armie. I really need you to."

They stare at each other until Armie slowly nods. "I do, Timmy. I do believe you. I’m not going to let anyone write me out of your life either, ok? I promise."

Armie clings at Timmy’s — _his_ — t-shirt through their whole embrace. Timmy feels his hands fisting the fabric on his back. This new aspect of their relationship — Armie allowing himself to let go with him, to be the one being held — has made Timmy grow so much since the first time it happened in a hotel room in Rome. He likes it. Being able to help Armie like Armie has been carrying him for their first two years is one of the most cherished feelings Timmy shelters in his heart.

They fall into a similar position than before, Timmy’s fingers resuming their dance on Armie’s chest.

"About the fighting for family thing, I was thinking…", Timmy says after a moment of silence. "I fight for them. I fight beside them. Damn, sometimes I even fight _with_ them. But I never fight against _me_ for them."

Making sure he keeps his voice low and soothing, Timmy continues, "It’s never right to do so, Armie. In any circumstances. I know people are family when, not only I feel comfortable enough around them not to have to fight my own nature, but mostly because I know they would never make me feel bad about myself on purpose. About my needs and my thoughts, about my feelings and my desires, about my fears and my insecurities. That’s why they’re family."

While organizing his thoughts, Timmy has been writing something with his finger just above Armie’s heart, tracing the word over and over. A single word, so short they hadn't been paying attention to it until now.

"Because it’s _easy_ to be with them."

The four letters make something click so loud inside Armie, Timmy hears it echoing all around them. It’s all he has ever wanted for Armie’s life: something Timmy has been born with.

"It’s funny, hearing you say that," Armie slowly says, a hint of wonder in his voice.

"Why?"

Armie looks up at him, eyes sparkling. "Because I very often think you’re the only easy relationship I have in my very complicated life."

Shivers run down Timmy’s spine. "I could say the same thing about you."

"You could say the same thing about me," Armie repeats. They smile the brightest spark of complicity they have seen on each other's faces in a long time.

They both doze off for another half hour. Timmy wakes up before Armie, untangles their bodies to leave the warm cocoon of their— of _the_ bed. He walks to the shelves, curious about the books Armie has been reading, the movies he’s been watching, and runs a finger on all the spines to read the titles.

"Do you have a bathtub here?" Timmy asks when he hears Armie sits up.

"Yeah," Armie yawns. "It’s hidden under the bed."

"Armiiiiieeee!", Timmy whines while a book is thrown in the vague direction of the bed.

"I know, I know, you love me. And there is one." Armie stretches his limbs, muttering something about getting old. "Do you want me to run a bath for you?"

"I’ll go in a minute," Timmy says, coming back to sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed.

"What do you want to do today?" Half of Armie’s question is lost in another repressed yawn. A pillow mark strikes his cheek and his hair points in all directions. He looks so young at this moment Timmy can’t help the rush of fondness warming his chest.

"Beat your ass in a one-on-one," Timmy replies with a large grin. "Too bad it's so complicated." 

"Shut up," Armie laughs, hitting him with a fluffy cushion. "I kick your ass just as often!"

"Only because you’re _cheating._ "

Armie frowns, "Being tall isn’t cheating in basketball."

"Man, look at yourself," Timmy rolls his eyes, dramatic. "You cheat coded the writing of your whole DNA."

Back in the living space, they face the necessity of cleaning the leftovers of their breakfast. Timmy refuses to sit on his ass and do nothing despite Armie’s protests. They end up side by side, shoulders bumping and towels fighting.

"…I guess you didn’t bring the X-box?", asks Timmy, glancing at the TV behind him as Armie puts the waffle iron away. 

"Still at home. Probably in the same state you left it the last time you were there."

"I’m actually surprised Nick didn’t put his sticky fingers on it."

Armie finishes wiping the kitchen counter and hangs the cloth to dry. "It’s in your room, Timmy." He unexpectedly puts his hand on Timmy, engulfing the spot where his neck meets his collarbone, his thumb drawing circles on his jaw. "Nobody’s touching your stuff if you aren’t there."

"Next time, I’ll teach Harper how to play," Timmy says in hushed voice, leaning into the contact. "I'll show her all the tricks so she can beat all your grown up asses while sipping at her Yoo-hoo box."

"My kids don’t drink crappy junk beverages."

Timmy snorts. "Right."

"What? It’s true!"

"You know it’s probably the first thing she picks up at friends’ or at school or wherever?" He smirks, looking up at Armie. "With all the waffles made out of supermarket mixes?"

They’re too close for the conversation they’re having, talking about Armie’s kids after cleaning the kitchen. Timmy sighs as they seem to have the same idea. Armie recoils but still says with humor in his voice.

"Please let me enjoy the blissful parental innocence for a while longer. I deserve a couple more years, at least."

Willing himself to laugh, Timmy forces the words out of his mouth, "Oh man, I can’t wait for her to have her first boyfriend. Or girlfriend."

Armie shakes his head, grip firm on his denial. "I’m really not ready to even _think_ about my 3 year old daughter’s future dating life."

Timmy takes pity on him and drops the subject. "That’s fair."

"Do you want to go out tonight? We could order a car, pick something extra-private to be safe. Or we could…", Armie is checking the inside of the fridge, already listing what he could cook if they decided against it.

"Can we just order too much food and watch something?" Timmy interrupts him. "I don’t feel like watching my every move. I just want to relax with you."

"Sounds good to me."

***

Timmy turns his blasting portable speaker off and walks out of the bathroom. He’s wearing Armie’s clothes again, a soft grey t-shirt and matching sport shorts he managed to secure around his hips with a tight knot. 

The living room is bathed in the crepuscular light coming trough the floor-to-ceiling windows. Only a few lights and lamps have been switched on, giving the large room a sense of warmth and intimacy. Everything is quiet.

"Armie?" Timmy calls, looking around. The room is empty. He puts his speaker on the coffee table, digs his naked tiptoes in the long piles of the fluffy carpet, unsure of what to do.

"I’m here," Armie’s voice answers only a few seconds later, coming from the hallway. With the soft sound of a door closing, his silhouette emerges from the darkness, phone in hand. "Just hung up with the kids." 

A jolt of panic instantly crosses over Timmy’s body. "Oh shit, did they hear the music? Or did she?"

"Nah, don’t worry about it. It could have been mine anyway." Armie offers a knowing smile, "It’s not like I never listened to your playlists."

"Did you order yet?" Timmy asks as Armie tucks his phone in his pocket. "I’m starving."

"The whole menu is on its way."

Both Timmy’s stomach and throat groan in approval, making them chuckle in unison. Armie approaches him with cautious steps, studying his face with a puzzled expression.

"You look… Revitalized," Armie suggests, like he’s unsure of what he’s seeing. "You’re— you’re _glowing_ , actually."

"Oh fuck, is it too much?" Timmy immediately looks around, searching for a mirror to check his reflection. He finds nothing, settles for the one Armie is sending back to him and understands he couldn’t have found a better one. No mirror could have endowed his image with such an affectionate spark. It’s the most freeing feeling in the world.

"Too much of what?" Armie asks, perplexed. "Rest?" 

"Make up." Timmy pauses for a second, waiting for something, not entirely sure what. Maybe for a natural blush to color his cheeks underneath the powder or for a sarcastic comment, not to be mean but to tease him because that’s the way Armie usually shows Timmy he loves him. Nothing comes, no embarrassment, no humor. A spreading smile slowly illuminates every feature of Timmy’s face. 

"I played around with stuff I’ve got. Some highlighter, a touch of color on the…" His hands ghosts around his lips and his whole face, mimicking the gestures he made a few minutes earlier before they fall on his flanks, defeated. "But maybe I overdid it?" 

"You should’ve told me it was that kind of date night. I would have dressed up a little bit." 

By now, Timmy knows all about Armie’s coping mechanism. Armie uses humor to buy time, to weigh his natural reaction over what’s the proper behavior expected from him. His current turmoil is making the blue of his eyes boil into midnight blue pools. Timmy sees him so clear, lost in the clouds of panic. He can’t seem to find anything to hang onto to prevent him from falling, won't stop running even if the sole of his feet only meet foreign ground in their haste.

"It’s not for you, jerk," Timmy laughs with a nudge on his shoulder. He hopes the contact will ground Armie back to him. "I’m just experimenting. I would like to… I _think_ I would like to wear some for red carpet looks. I mean, more than the usual stuff. But I need to figure out what I’m comfortable with before. So I’m trying different things when it’s safe to do so."

Timmy is pretty sure Armie didn’t hear any of his words, the fascinating look on his face too close to actual frenzy. He stopped running, instead choosing to stand still and to fully take on what’s in front of him. His eyes roam over Timmy's face like the ones of a small bird, unsure of how his first flight into the brand new world will go. Timmy relishes in the way his eyelashes seem to tickle against his skin, leaving a trail of blazing chills in their wake.

For a while, the only sound in the room comes from Armie's deep breaths passing through his dilated nostrils, mouth cautiously closed as his chest expands. For Timmy, it’s like being encompassed by something greater than them both all at once. It feels monumental, the way his presence is worshipped, his smell embraced and his soul carried in open palms and delicately laid at the center of a halo of light.

"Did you do something to your eyes?" Armie rasps, only hitting the deepest notes of the spectrum.

"I smudged some purply-brown powder over the lash lines," Timmy explains on the same tone, mouth dry.

Timmy sees Armie switching his mind midway through his thought. He’s pretty sure what he decides to say next is very different from what he had in mind.

"You kinda smell like me now," Armie notices with half a smile.

"Sorry, I should have asked. I didn’t bring any—"

Armie shakes his head to silence him. "I like it," he says in approval, rolling up one of Timmy’s damp strands around his finger and watches it shine against his skin before setting it free as a now defined curl. "All the powdery stuff as well." He doesn’t leave enough time for Timmy to catch his breath before he adds, "You’re beautiful."

"Yeah?" Timmy gasps, too loud for his own taste. "I— Thanks."

Armie’s phone rings with their incoming delivery.

They don’t even turn on the TV when they start to eat. They sit on the floor, side by side, knees touching and fingers brushing as they share and trade different cartons. _And no Armie, you can't trade chicken for pork. Chicken is as least one pork and one vegetarian. One shrimp is one chicken and two tablespoons of rice._ A peaceful piano music plays in the background, cradles their laughs and softens their weak attempts at wrestling between mouthfuls.

"Mmmh, that’s so good," Timmy moans, arching his neck to rest on the seat of the couch.

"No servant to feed the King of England in Europe or what?" Armie asks, lips greasy from some tempuras.

"Nah, it’s all about—" Timmy gestures to embrace everything around them. "All of this. The ambiance. Sitting on the floor eating takeout with New York lights all around. It’s the essence of my whole life. It’s like… Sunny Sunday family barbecues for you."

Armie’s jaw hardens for a microsecond. "Yeah. I guess you’re right."

Minutes later, the dinner rhythm slows down to occasional snacking, stomachs on their way to becompletely full. Timmy, who took Armie’s phone, is now scrolling through his Spotify likes and playlists, wandering with curiosity.

" _New person, same old mistakes_ AND _Rampage_ … You're sure you're ok, Armie?"

"It’s just music, Timmy," Armie shrugs.

Timmy frowns, "Not to me, Hammer."

They stare at each other for a moment. A ghost in Armie’s eyes begs Timmy not to pursue his interrogation, telling him now is not the right time and that the right time will probably not come before a long time, maybe not ever but _definitely not now, please_.

"Can I take another look?" Armie asks when the silence has stretched for too long, pointing at the contracts they left on the couch earlier.

"Be my guest."

This time, Armie takes his time to read in minute detail, focused on every word.

"Why did they push back some starting dates?" Armie questions after a while, pointing at some of the corrections made by hand.

"That’s not— _I_ asked for that. I can’t do the Beautiful Boy promo without you."

"That’s bullshit."

Timmy shakes his head. He’s not fishing for compliments or a pep talk. "I couldn’t have shot the movie if it wasn’t for you. I could barely do it _with_ you so there is no way I’m defending this movie to the world alone. No way. I don’t even know how to do promo without you yet. I told them I needed you."

Armie takes the neck of his bottle of beer between two fingers and makes it swing before taking a sip. He smiles, pensive, "I would have loved to see their faces hearing that one, but you really suck at negotiating, man."

"Fuck them," Timmy says crossing his arms on his chest. "Like really, fuck them. I have to agree on way too many things already."

Armie keeps on reading for a few minutes, absently grabs Timmy’s oversize hoodie and puts it on. Happiness washes over Timmy as he watches Armie pull on the sleeves, put the fabric under his nose and leave it there.

"Did you go alone?" Armie wonders, closing the files again.

"Brian was there and—"

"No, I mean with someone who has your best interests at heart."

"Brian has—"

"Forget Brian," Armie interrupts once again. "I know he doesn’t only see you as a walking pile of cash but he isn’t only your friend, here. He’s also your agent. You need someone who will support you and only you."

"Like yourself?"

Armie snorts. "Yeah, that would be an amazing idea since they already wrote several pages about me, and I wasn’t even there. You know I’m worse than you at negotiating. I would snap in no time, tell everyone to go fuck themselves and ruin every one of your contracts."

Timmy laughs airily. "At least the meetings would be fun."

"I was thinking about actual smart people like Pauline, or Will."

Timmy doesn’t answer right away, spends a long minute scrutinizing Armie with a neutral face and a strange intensity in his eyes.

"I love you, you know that?"

"What did I do now?" There is a forced casualness to Armie’s voice that Timmy doesn’t let settle. This is too important to be brushed by Armie's inability to consider that he deserves to be loved and to hear it.

"I know you and Will don’t get along that well," Timmy explains, voice colored with earnestness."And yet when it comes to important matters… You only think about me. You don’t let your personal feelings cloud your judgement." 

"This is so not true, Timmy, and you know it."

"It is right now. And it really means a lot to me. So thank you, truly."

Armie nods twice, eyes on his lap, a faint blush on his cheeks. Timmy knows he’s waiting for him to change the subject and start rambling about something else. He doesn’t, not immediately anyway. He wants Armie to fully absorb what he just said. He counts up to thirty then decides to get back to the original topic.

"Do you think I really can? Bring a third party to a confidential meeting?"

"Of course you can. It’s business. Since they love contracts so much, use it. Bring your lawyer — not the ones related to your team but one you hired yourself — say Will is your personal adviser or assistant and that you won’t talk or negotiate anything without them in the room with you. They’d have to sign NDAs as well but they would be allowed to be there for you. You need muscles, Timmy." 

Timmy gasps when Armie circles his waist and attacks his sides with jabbing fingers. Armie takes pity on him, quickly stops his assaults and drops a kiss on the top of Timmy’s head. "You’re too tiny to fight the sharks on your own," Armie says quietly.

Timmy nods but refuses to let Armie go when he feels his arms trying to slide off his body. He clings to Armie’s waist and shoulders, nestles himself into Armie’s left flank and nuzzles against the first patch of skin he manages to find. Armie smells like both of them, they both do, their scents mixed by a day of not standing further than two feet appart, of sharing shower products and all of their clothes. Squeezing Armie tightly against him, Timmy wishes he could fold the whole 6’5 of the man in a corner of his heart and keep him there as a secret to carry everywhere with him. Not because he doesn’t want people to see, but because if nobody knows Armie’s here, no one will try to remove him from his rightful place. Being molded all around Armie doesn’t prevent anxiety from twisting his stomach, but helps him avoiding the hurt. 

After a while, Timmy whispers, "What if it comes a time when I don’t want to fight them anymore?"

"Why wouldn’t you want to fight the assholes?" Armie says, voice low as his hand smoothes the hair on Timmy’s nape.

"I don’t know, I’m—"

"It’s not that bad, I promise. Well, I guess it is from time to time. But it’s work and it’s the best job in the entire world. Bad days are part of the deal and sometimes, if they suck too much, it’s only because the good ones are so fucking amazing. You just have to make sure the terrible don’t overshadow the great."

"That’s not— I’m terrified of _loving_ it, Armie."

"You—"

"Don’t. Please don’t say that I’m not like this, that I’m better. Because I want to sign, Armie. You have no idea how badly I want to sign. And the desire — it scares the shit out of me. I know it isn’t healthy and that’s exactly why I should say no. And yet I already know I’m going to do the exact opposite. I’m terrified of not knowing when or how to stop myself. I know the comparison is lame and I should be ashamed but the last time I had to dig into that kind of feelings was for Nic’s story. So I already know the only way to survive is out. To turn around, walk away and never try to look back."

The confession floats between them for a moment and Timmy imagines how surprised Armie must be to find out how close he actually is to drop everything, or at least to consider taking a completely different path for his career, shaping it into something he already knows wouldn't be fulfilling for himself. Or maybe he simply doesn’t know how to answer anyway. 

"Acting isn’t a drug, Timmy," Armie says carefully. "If it is, it’s the fucking healthiest one I’ve ever experienced."

"I know. But fame is."

"What do I do then?" Timmy asks quietly after a while, slowly rubbing his cheek against the fabric of Armie’s shirt.

"I can’t decide for you. You’re the only one who should answer to that question. All I know is…" Armie pauses for a second, searching for the right words. "If you sign, you’re going to be amazing." The conviction is strong in his voice and keeps getting stronger as he continues. "As Paul, as a new leader is this industry and as a major figure to the world. You’re that guy, Timmy. Not the one they’re going to build for money and producers, but the one you already are and who’s going to inspire so many people to be good. To be better. Exactly like you did with me."

"I did not," Timmy mutters, not looking at Armie.

"Of course you did. But what I’m saying is, you can pull so much good out of the bullshit on the longterm scale." Armie pauses and Timmy is certain he purposely infuses a hint of deference in his next words, "Plus, you get to be Muad’Dib in the meantime."

"It’s going to be sick, isn’t it?" Timmy can hear the smile in his own voice, every single one of his cells already buzzing, aching to sneak into the character’s skin who's already his, who is already him. If his mind can’t wrap around the idea yet, his body or maybe something way less tangible than cells, something deep and instinctive already _knows_.

He has his answer then. He sighs.

"I thought— I thought I could do things differently. When I got my first acting jobs, I kind of made this promise to myself. I guess my word is worth so much. I was too naive. And dumb."

"You’re not going to change Hollywood by yourself at 22. Be patient, Timmy. Take the power out of their hands and when it’ll be secure in yours — change the fucking rules and spit in their old faces as you leave them behind."

"You’ll help me? Timmy inquires, his fingers back at skating abstract loops on Armie chest. He catches the heartbeat at the end of a fingertips and matches his path to the tempo.

"Every day."

Much later that night, they’re both back on the bed in Armie’s office, laying side by side while starring at the ceiling with their heads touching.

"You want to know what I think?" Armie asks after a few minutes of total silence.

"Yeah?"

"You’ve worked hard to give us these few extra months for Beautiful Boy, right? Don’t you think we should do our best to honor all of your efforts?"

"I guess?"

"Let’s give them a— _plenty_ of reasons to be _really_ pissed at us while we’re still allowed to, ok?"

***

Timmy lied to Armie. He doesn’t know to what extend, if it's only about the car being here for him (he didn’t even call yet) or if it was for the entirety of the 24 hours they just spent together. He only said the truth so why is he unable to shake the feeling off? 

All he needed was a break between Armie’s overwhelming presence and the outside world. He can still feel his chocked breath against him, the tightness on his embrace, his smell lingering on his clothes, the way Armie kept holding him for a few seconds too long, unready to let him go. He can’t go out still wearing every bits of them all over himself.

He’s currently hiding in the building’s lobby, tiptoeing on the border of Armie’s world, unsure of what to do. To avoid the concierge’s suspicious look, he scrolls on his phone, absently at first until it he understands he’s looking for Will. He doesn’t know what he is up to today, considers calling without a warning but realizes whatever conversation they’re about to have would be safer inside of a private car than in a lobby almost anybody can walk in.

Ten minutes later, a car with dark tinted windows pulls over in front of the building.

"Good morning, Mister Chalamet," says the rich voice of a man in his late thirties, sitting behind the wheel as Timmy climbs on the backseat, taking the bag off his back.

Timmy is about to protest but the driver interrupts him, aware of what he’s about to say. "I already told you yesterday I can’t call you Tim, Mister Chalamet. My contract is very explicit on that."

"Right, sorry." The man smiles gently at him. "Good morning, Andrew."

The service cars he uses now aren’t Uber or Lyft anymore. His agency asked him to use a way more high-profile and private company, especially when he wants to be discreet or when he’s somewhere he isn’t supposed to be. Now he has three regular drivers when he’s here. Andrew for daytime, Salvatore at night and Tina for holidays or when neither of the first two is available. 

With only a few notes of the song playing at low volume in the background he recognizes [an old Santigold tune](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GTVSe5eYOio). She used to be on one of his playlists when he was 16 or 17. Personalized music selection is part of the driving service and Timmy never knows if he sees it as a nice touch or as borderline concerning attention.

"Was your short time in the city enjoyable, Sir?" Andrew asks as he sets the car in motion.

"I— I’m not sure." He looks up one last time at Armie’s  apartment for a quick second before looking back at the driver. "Do you mind if I pull the partition up, Andrew? I’m really sorry it’s incredibly rude but I really need to make a call before catching my flight."

"As you wish, Sir."

The precaution is highly unnecessary. A large part of a driver's salary is to prevent any tentation of selling information to the highest buyer. Only this time, it isn’t just about Timmy’s life. It’s about all the confidential paperwork weighing on him and Armie’s. He silently swears to ask about Andrew’s daughter before leaving the car.

With his phone in his right hand, he takes two deep breaths, slowly, one after the other and pressesthe name on his very short list of favorite numbers. He counts four seconds before the call is picked up.

"Will?" Timmy is the first to speak, a nervous hurry in his way of calling his friend’s name which doesn’t go unnoticed.

"Give me a minute," Will says without missing a beat.

By the muffled voices he hears over the phone, Timmy has no doubt he’s bothering Will. However, less than twenty seconds later, everything is quiet and Will asks, "You’re leaving New York, aren’t you?"

"In the car on my way back to the airport."

"Did you call Brian yet?"

"No."

"Timmy… You have to tell him you won’t—"

"I’m going to sign," Timmy speaks over the end of Will’s sentence, too anxious to wait before he delivers the news.

Will considers his words for a moment before asking, "What’s changed?"

"Nothing. I was always going to do it, you know it as much as I do. I just didn’t have any good reason to. I have one now."

"Which is?"

"They’re trying again, Will. They’re trying to save their marriage."

"That’s fucked up, man."

"I know you don’t like how things went but—"

"I don’t like how he treated _you_ , Tim. But that’s not my point. What’s fucked up is you making a decision for your life based on something he decided for _his_."

"I’m n— It’s not like that! Will, it’s not! The decision was already made, ok? Fuck them, fuck everyone else who wants the role. It’s fucking _mine_. But I couldn’t— I couldn’t make peace with it. Armie— he helped me find that. And he gave me a real reason instead of all the excuses I was coming up with. It changes everything."

"Their marriage, that’s your miraculous reason?"

"In a way, yeah? He really wants to try and to have a fair chance at succeeding and I want to be supportive about the choices he’s making about his life. No one has never done that for him. And we all know they can’t really have a fair chance if I’m not doing… _something_ to help them. Even if it doesn’t work between them, they’re going to need space. _He_ ’s going to need space. He hasn’t had any for himself in forever." 

Hearing the line of thinking coming out of his mouth is the last piece of puzzle he needed to know where he stands and where he’s going. "So I’m going to work on Dune. Focus on that for the next couple of years— maybe a little bit more. Then… Then, we’ll see."

A light switches to green before Will comes up with a question Timmy wasn’t expecting. "Did you manage to postpone the dates after all?"

"I did. Why?"

"You’re going to spend the last months of the year being the most perfect and most beautiful best friend in the entire world, aren’t you?"

He can’t fool him. Will knows everything worth knowing about him and the rest just as much. The best, the worst and the darkest.

"Well, nobody can blame me for just trying to be the best version of myself, right?" Timmy answers with the ghost of a smirk at the corner of his lips, the shadow of a spark in his eyes.

He hears Will quietly laugh and whisper a word that sounds a lot like _unbelievable_. They keep quiet for a moment until Will voices what was floating in both their minds. "So you’re really going to do it?"

" _We_ ’re going to do it."

"What?"

"I’ll tell you about it, soon."

A couple of minutes later, they’re about to hang up when Will stops him, "And Timmy?"

"Yeah?"

"I’m really proud of you."

***

**November 19, 2018. Los Angeles.**

**_From Brian Swardstrom : <Hello Armie. I hope you’re doing well. Could you give me a call asap? The Warner wants to meet you.>_ **

**Author's Note:**

> For any additional talking, asking or yelling, you can also find me on tumblr @alittlefrenchtree.


End file.
